by Salman Rushdie
It's been too long since I've last read any fiction books. I've started to dig into this novel and have found it to be quite amusing so far:
...while the Muslim League rejoiced, secretly of course, at the fall of its opponent, my grandfather could be found (my nose finds him) seated every morning on what he called his 'thunderbox', tears standing in his eyes. But theses are not tears of grief; Aadam Aziz has simply paid the price of being Indianized, and suffers terribly from constipation. Balefully, he eyes the enema contraption hanging on the toilet wall.
This is utterly ridiculous. More to come later, don't have much time these days, so I'm slowly making my way through this one.